


Apocalyptic

by starsandtrucks



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Horror, Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Fuckin A+ original title, GSR - Freeform, Gen, Horror, Injury, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandtrucks/pseuds/starsandtrucks
Summary: AU. Trying to escape from the burning ruins of Las Vegas and their lives, the team sets out across the desert, heading for the coast and safety.





	Apocalyptic

**Grissom**   
  


The city is on fire.   
  
It's not a pretty metaphor. The Strip is decimated, and you wonder when the hell that happened, who decided to toss the match. You wonder if it was an accident or if it was some poor gambler's way of getting back at Lady Luck in the chaos that would let him get away with it.   
  
Some small voice in the back of your head questions whether or not Warrick had something to do with it- his gambling days were behind him, but you know that the click of the dice is a siren song that haunts him.   
  
You don't bet on it. You don't even know if Warrick is alive. Or Nick. Or Greg.   
  
You hope that Catherine hadn't been foolhardy enough to seek refuge with her father.   
  
...You don't bet on it. She would have taken Lindsey and gotten the hell out of Dodge while there was still time.   
  
You're not as smart as she is, and anyway, you have nowhere else to go. Your mother has been dead for two years now. The makeshift family that the lab built around you is scattered, and cell phones aren't working. Land lines have been out for hours. The power is out, too, and if it weren't for the buildings crackling away merrily in the distance you wouldn't be able to see your away around the parking lot. You think that the night sky should be beautiful for once, with its electric rivals dead, but the fire that's lighting your way is producing a lot of smoke, and you pick your way around the wreckage of crashed cars, coughing.   
  
The lab doors, as you approach them, are miraculously unbroken. As you move closer you can see that this wasn't from lack of trying. Whoever is stretched across the concrete walkway tried like hell to break those doors down, and you stoop over the prone form.   
  
Her hands are bloodied and bruised; the skin torn as she fought off whatever had attacked her. There's blood on the ground, quite a bit of it, but you ignore it and lean in to rest your first two fingers on her pulse point. Her heart is beating, faint, but it's there, and you give a relieved sigh. Her eyes flutter open, and she tries pathetically to drag herself away; it's a last ditch effort made by her body to fight or flight. Rich brown meets your own blue and her eyes focus; she recognizes you.   
  
"Grissom." The word makes it out of her throat but it's obscured by bubbles of blood. Her breath rattles in her chest, and you know that the damage is too great, that she won't make it without help. And there is no more help. There may never be help again.   
  
"Sara."   
  
You sit down beside her. You had known, somehow, that you would both wind up here; here, the lab, the focal point of your lives, the only place you know where order comes out of chaos. You might live in separate apartments but the lab is your home. And when you can't get in, you'll wait outside. You know you won't bother to force the doors; whether you're inside or outside, death is coming for you. Walls make no difference.   
  
You pull her broken body into your lap, and she leans her head against your shoulder, snuggling into you as your wrap your arms around her. She's frail, light enough to move without getting up, and you scoot the two of you back into a corner, leaning your shoulders against the walls. She isn't crying and you admire her strength as you stroke her hair, matted with dirt and blood.   
  
The sun rises over what once was a city, and you wait for them to come and finish you off.  
  


 

**Catherine**   
  


You tug insistently on Lindsey’s hand. She hasn’t spoken since… since. You’re not going to let yourself think about it. You’re just going to keep pushing yourself towards your destination, and you’re going to pull her along with you. Her hand is clinging to yours with every ounce of strength she contains, and you guess that it’s a good thing.   
  
The pain hasn’t hit you yet and you’re glad for it. You know that you’re in shock, and that the situation could get uglier-  
  
_\---Who will take care of her if I’m not here to I can’t leave her alone---_  
  
\- than it already is, but you’ve only got a mile more to walk. You think about the little mermaid, how each footstep she took felt as if she were treading on a thousand knives, and yet she danced with the grace of angels. You’re both dancers. You’re both walking on naked blades. You’re not sure if you have her grace, but at least you’re moving forward. Lindsey acts as your crutch as you hobble quickly through the rubble of the city, the place you once called home.   
  
You look down at your daughter and the blankness in her eyes lets you know that she’s in shock, too. Hopefully she’ll scream quietly when she comes out of it, and guilt prickles at your neck like sweat for desiring her silence to ensure her safety. Her screams are inevitable. So, you think, are yours.  
  
The lab is just ahead now. Another quarter mile- maybe less- you can just make out the outlines of the building through the smoky haze. Outlines of possible salvation. Possible, because there’s food in there, and a ballistics lab with loaded firearms in its lockers. Possible, because you don’t know if you can break into the guns. Possible, because you’re not sure if the lab is already… occupied… and there’s no way to tell from this distance.  
  
As you get closer, you see the shadowy form in the doorway, and your heart sinks down into your broken feet. You have no fight left in you, but you don’t stop your forward motion- may as well see who or what it is before breaking into one of the cars in the back lot.   
  
One form separates, becomes two. Grissom. Sara.   
  
Grissom stirs slightly, strokes Sara’s hair with a gentle hand. Looking up, he sees you standing there. His sigh is resigned.  
  
“I’d hoped you two had gotten out.”  
  
“Would have been nice.” The wry, bantering tone is habitual, but you're distracted. You're looking at the doors; he’s looking at your legs. There's no time for that, though, not now, not yet.  
  
“Let’s bust this bitch open, Gil. We’re not going to last very long out here.”  
  
“You’re in no shape, Cath…”  
  
This makes you mad. Mad is good, it keeps the adrenaline pumping, keeps the pain at bay. “I walked here from Fremont Street, I’ll be god damned if I’m not going to get through one more door.”  
  
His blink is slow, almost owlish, and he slowly nods.  
  
“Help me move Sara. She’s…” you wince as you see his composure start to slip, “broken.” Lindsey breaks away from you, wordlessly helping Grissom lower Sara to the floor. She supports her head as the two of you break the locks on the doors, forcing them open just enough to let you through. You watch them as they maneuver Sara through the doors, following them down the deserted and strangely orderly halls to Grissom’s office.   
  
That’s it, you think. Grissom’s office. It has always been a sanctuary for you when the world got too tough to handle. Grateful for the solid walls, you lean against one, sliding down the cool surface until you’re sitting on the floor. Lindsey crouches beside you, straightens out your legs. The ache is starting now, the comforting numbness wearing off now that your brain thinks that your body has reached safety. Closing your eyes, letting yourself relax slightly, your mind starts to wander, and you wonder if Lindsey the real little mermaid, regardless of her painless feet. If the things that stole her voice could be considered witches. If she would get anything in return, in the end. Did that mermaid ever get her soul? You can't remember now.   
  
You pray that she’ll find her voice again some day. Some day in the future-  
  
_\--- if we make it that far---_  
  
\- when the screaming’s all over and done with, and the memory of Sam being-  
  
_\--- crushed they crushed him she saw it how could she see that and ever be all right again his screams are still ringing in my ears we’re never going to get through this---_  
  
\- killed has faded. Words will find her again.   
  
Hell, maybe she’ll even sing.  
  


 

**Warrick**

 

  
You think that it must be the last tree standing in Vegas.   
  
The bark scrapes the back of your hands as you lean her back against the trunk- it wasn’t much of a tree- and the lowest branches tangle in your hair as you stand up to your full height. The one eye you can see with relays the image of her sitting there to your brain- an old woman, crossing the threshold from the twilight of her life to the darkness.   
  
She’s dying and you couldn’t be happier about it.  
  
You’re not the only one who’s thrilled; Grams is pretty chipper too, for all that her breathing is tight and her eyes are starting to droop. She’s looked forward to meeting her Maker her whole life, and in the violent maelstrom the world has suddenly become, she’s being granted the blessing of a natural death. She squeezes your hand, tilting her head slightly upwards. Through the branches of the tree the smoky sky is starting to clear; here and there stars peep out. You think your eyes would tear up if you let them. But you don’t want your last moments with Grams obscured by salt. There will be enough time for that later.  
  
Her hand on your cheek breaks you from your reverie. Old, wrinkled, the skin so delicate that it feels like it would rend with the slightest pressure. You think that looks are deceiving- those hands are the strongest you have ever known.   
  
“Your pretty eyes, Warrick,” she murmurs. “Those pretty eyes of yours.”  
  
“Will be just fine, Grams.” You hold her think hand in yours and try to keep the tremor out of your voice.   
  
“You go on now, Warrick,” she says, and her voice is as firm as it was when you were a kid, getting into nothing but trouble. It’s a voice that you learned not to argue with a long, long time ago.  
  
“I’m not leaving you here alone.” You argue with her anyway, because she’s leaving you and you’re scared.   
  
She turns and looks at you. “No, but I’m leaving you,” she says, and you know that the moment has finally come. The goodbyes are standard.  
  
“I love you, Grams.”  
  
“I love you too, baby. We’ll see each other again.”  
  
She doesn’t catch you whisper the word “soon.”  
  
You leave her there, by the tree, the shell of her body staring at the stars that dance around curtains of smoke. You hope that the last thing she saw was starlight, and not firelight. You hope that on her death you inherited her indomitable strength. You hope that she’s right, and that you will see each other again- you hope that a world gone mad isn’t a sign that things are screwing up in Heaven, too.  
  
Hoisting your shotgun over your shoulder, you give Grams one last look and turn away. It’s a good image to have of her. She looks almost young again, a little girl staring in awe at the firmament.   
  
The streets- what are left of them- are nearly empty; you see a fleeting shadow clinging to the edges of sidewalks once in a while, and the occasional scream carries from the distance.   
  
You head for the lab.   
  
You hope it’s still standing.  
  
By the time you get there, things have ceased to surprise you. You pass dead bodies- or parts of them- in the streets without blinking an eye, where once you might have winced. When you get to the lab, you discover that you can still register amazement, and your surprise surprises you.   
  
The building is dark. The little light illuminating the hallway as you enter comes from the few offices in the front of the building with windows.   
  
The darkness of the corridor doesn't shock you. It's seeing Lindsey there that makes your good eye widen slightly.  
  
You wonder if she's dead and you're seeing her ghost. The little girl stares at you somberly, and neither of you say anything. Unbidden, the memory surfaces of the time that you led her away from her feuding parents to play games on your computer. That dancing, sparkling child has been replaced with this fragment of pale-haired shadow.  
  
She closes the distance between you, taking your hand and pulling you down the hallway, as if she were the little girl again, and not the young woman that she had been fighting so hard to become.   
  
At Grissom's office door she turns and looks at you, her eyes expressionless. A heavy sadness settles itself somewhere around your shoulders as you look at her. Sorrow for what could have been, what might never be. Taking a deep breath, you follow her inside.  
  


  
**Greg**   
  


It's like something out of a movie.  
  
The last bus pulls away, and you aren't on it. You feel like that kid in that asteroid movie, the one who got off the bus at the last second because he wouldn’t die without his girlfriend. You never saw the end of that one. Maybe he died. Or maybe he found his girlfriend and they lived happily ever after in a changed world.  
  
Your world is definitely changed, now. One parallel.  
  
You got off the bus voluntarily. Two parallels.  
  
You were probably the only person in the whole city not left behind against your will. You don’t know if that’s a parallel, but you guess that’s where any and all similarities end.  
  
Catherine and Lindsey never came. They were supposed to meet you there, on the edge of the westernmost suburb, with the other survivors. You know that they were supposed to be there because you had been in radio contact briefly. But then the busses with their shell shocked cargo had begun to leave, striking out into the desert, making for the California coast. Somewhere along the line, you had heard a rumor that  _they_  didn’t like water.  
  
This also reminds you of a movie you’d seen. You think of that movie as you remember Doctor Robbins’s anxious face, pressed against the back window of the commandeered school bus, mouthing things at you that you couldn’t understand. He, his family, and David had all managed to get there before it was too late. You were all supposed to make one last spectacular getaway together, because if nothing else you knew each other. The sky was falling, but you wouldn’t be with strangers. In the end, you gave your place to someone else. If Catherine was out there, god damn it, you would find her. One way or another.  
  
You don't linger there long, staring at the mountains that ringed the horizon. The sun was hurtling across the sky, leaving only six or seven hours until sunset; you think it's probably too dangerous to travel after dark. Too dangerous to travel period, maybe, but at least the daylight afforded a view of what was attacking you.  
  
Later on you'll shake your head and smile at the undeniable logic of it all.  _Head to the lab. The lab has guns. Loaded guns._  The same thought you all had, and silently you would bless Bobby for always keeping the ballistics lab fully stocked and bragging to everyone about it.  
  
Even if you aren't surprised to see the core of the night shift there, you are kind of shocked at the state they're in. You and Grissom seem to be the only ones without serious injuries. You leave Lindsey off that list, because while she wasn’t bleeding, her mind seemed to have… fractured, somehow.  
  
There is no way that Warrick is going to be able to save that eye, you think, looking at the wound carefully, as you attempt to clean it. Something had clawed him across the face, catching all the soft tissue with its talons. The left side of his face is bloody, torn, a   
mess you're not sure how to patch together. He turns his head slightly and you think that the other side of his head is as flawless as it ever was. His cocoa skin is warm under your hands as you wrap a clean bandage around his head, and you’re thankful for that, if nothing else.  
  
Catherine is worse. You don’t know what happened to her, and you’re almost afraid to ask. Pale strands of hair stick to the sweat coating her face, her eyes closed in concentration as she tries not to cry. You can’t really assess the damage well, in the dim light of Grissom’s office. You do know that her right leg is broken in several places, and her feet- you try not to look. You didn’t throw up at your first autopsy, and you don’t want to mar your perfect record now.  
  
And of course there’s Sara, lying on Grissom’s couch. He sits on the floor next to her, his head level with hers, stroking her hair. You’re not sure if she’s conscious. She might even be dead. It’s surreal, looking at her hands, usually full of movement, so uncompromisingly still. Her injuries are internal, and you know that it means the clock has begun ticking for her. You don’t know when the gears will grind to a silent halt. Could be hours, minutes, days… you reach out to touch her hand. It moves slightly, and Grissom places his lips to her temple, holds them there for a long moment. Would Grissom will still run his fingers through her hair after she’d gone? You wonder if Lindsey wasn’t the only one with a shattered mind, and reasoned out ways to hold everything together.  
  
“We’ve got to get out of here,” you hear yourself saying, hours later, in the wan dawnlight. They all look at you. No one raises an argument.  
  
“The Denalis are still out back,” Warrick says slowly, weighing the merits of staying holed up where they were versus striking out into the unknown. Your eyes glance around the room- you could move them, you think. Catherine. Sara. Very, very carefully.  
  
“We should leave before dark,” you continue. “Head for the coast. Find… a boat, maybe. Something.”  
  
Grissom surprises you by nodding in agreement. “It’s better than dying here. We have a better chance, out there.” The knuckles of the hand not resting on Sara’s head are curled into a fist so tight that they shine white in the darkness- little moons, shining through dense clouds. Nothing could touch the moon. No one could shoot down the stars.  
  
You take it as a good sign, and begin to gather up first aid supplies.

  
  
**Nick**

  
The batteries in the radio are dead.  
  
Not that it matters. The signal had faded hours ago, with the sunrise. You stand with the small contraption in your hand, staring at it, wondering why the comforting static has faded with the pout of a small child on your lips.  
  
The last reports weren’t really reports at all. Frenzied voices of people trapped inside the radio station were the last thing to be transmitted. A running monologue of what was happening to them, giving way to frantic cries for help, and finally, screams. Behind the shrill cries you could just make out something more sinister; a low, harsh snarling sound.  
  
You, along with the rest of the nation, had first heard that ominous noise three days before. They had attacked outward from the Atlantic Ocean, suddenly, without warning, and in both directions. The western coasts of Europe and Africa fell within hours; communications with the rest of the world was cut off mere minutes later. The entire army had been called to the Eastern Seaboard, managing to hold them off long enough for a few ragged bands of empty-eyed survivors to head west as fast as their feet could carry them and their horrible stories.  
  
Your hand starts to shake and you rest it against your thigh, impatiently. You tell yourself that it’s only fatigue, stress, adrenaline- anything to keep your mind off the real reason that you’re trembling. You imagine yourself throwing the radio against the broken pavement and watching it shatter into a thousand pieces; instead you start walking. You can’t bring yourself to kill that last link to civilization.  
  
Their army- if that was what it was- had swarmed inland, killing everything they encountered as it went. Swift as a biblical plague imagined by someone with a penchant for writing horror stories, they reached Vegas two days later. The US Army and National Guard had regrouped in the desert just to the east, but had been pushed farther and farther back. About half of the city lay in infested ruins, and you skirt the edges as far away from them as you can get.  
  
You don’t particularly care. Stumbling over a loose bit of asphalt, you curse, but there are tears in your eyes and in your voice and it sounds half-hearted in the hazy light.  
  
_Where are they where are they where are they where-_  A single question loops over and over in your mind. Your family- your mother and father, your sisters, your brother, their children. You don’t know if they got out while there was still time.  
  
All you can do is hope, now. Hope and pray and stare at the cars you pass, wondering if you’re insane enough to try to drive into Texas to find them. You know that it would be easy to get in- getting out would be the impossible part. And what if they… if they…  
  
You’re not going to let yourself think about it. You won’t replace the faces of the bodies in your path with those of your loved ones. They had a shot. Not the best one, but a chance. Maybe, just maybe they made it to the Gulf. Dad was smart. Dad had a boat.  
  
_Dad has a boat Dad has a boat Dad has a boat Dad-_  It’s a better refrain than a pointless inquiry. A period at the end of a sentence being that much more beautiful than a question mark.  
  
You’ve been walking around, almost senselessly, for hours, and your legs are finally starting to speak up against this in protest. Your stomach seconds them, complaining about the last time it got any nourishment. You can’t really remember, and you sit down on a bench to figure it out.  
  
There’s something ironic about sitting on a bench in the midst of a ruined city. Its metallic green paint was perfect; not a scratch or a chip to be seen. You laugh and shake your head.  
  
It shouldn’t really be that funny, and you think that you must have finally lost it.  
  
A sudden noise cuts through your laughter, and you look down the street. It’s a normal noise, so normal that it’s exquisitely out of place. The revving of a car engine, and the slow crunch of tires rolling over rubble. Through the drifting smoke you can just make out a black SUV heading toward you.  
  
Last ship out, you think, telling your tired legs to shut the hell up as you climb to your feet.  
  
After an agonizingly slow approach, the driver’s window rolls down.  
  
“Need a lift?”  
  
The voice is slow, rolling, joking with you, and you can feel the happiness radiating from the driver. Briefly you wonder if there is indeed a God- a fact you had been seriously doubting the last couple of days- and it he was finally giving you a small hint of a smile.  
  
“You know what, Greg? I think I do.”  
  


 

**Sara**

 

Once, a long time ago, you had peeled a tangerine.  
  
Crossing the quad on the way to a class- now forgotten- the evening heavy around your shoulders. You had never liked the way the sun set so early in the wintertime, and the tangerine in your hand seemed then like a tiny sun. Its bright orange skin had reflected dully in the light of the streetlamps, and your fingernails had begun to tear it off.   
  
You didn’t have time, then, to juggle books and fruit and peel, so you let the pieces you ripped off fall behind you, Gretel leaving fragments of sunshine in her wake to guide her way home. You told yourself that it wouldn’t matter, it was biodegradable, the squirrels would eat it. Giddy, you inhaled the tangerine’s holiday scent, feeling as if you had gotten away with something as you hurried through the cold and into the building.   
  
That is what it is like to be dying.  
  
Somehow, you had thought it would be different, but now that it’s happening, you can't imagine it being any other way. The dull ache, deep in your chest, the way your limbs have grown heavy. The way the pain has worn off, leaving an incredible weariness in its place. Colors are brighter, and you can barely feel the floor of the truck beneath your back. You can see the sky through the windows, and if you shift your gaze over slightly you can see Grissom staring down at you. He hasn’t stopped stroking your hair.  
  
You have that giddy feeling. You feel like you’re getting with something again.  
  
You want to sit up, to see the desert as you pass it by. You wish someone would turn on the radio, and break the silence that holds you all in its arms. Air passes your lips as you try to tell them these things, but all that comes out is a liquid sigh. Grissom wipes the blood off your chin.  
  
You try to glare at him; after all, you’re not a child. He quirks his lips in a slight, almost invisible smile as he notices how your eyes are narrowing at him. You smile back, as if this whole situation is some kind of joke between you.  
  
You hadn’t planned to die tonight. You had thought you would be up front with Warrick and Greg, or whoever, manning the guns and carting injured people that you’d rescued in the back. Being a casualty wasn’t part of that. It had been a good plan, but it had gone out the window as soon as you’d opened your front door.  
  
That…  _thing_  had slammed you backwards, right back into your apartment. Even now, you can’t remember what happened with total clarity- razor sharp claws had scraped at you, while another pair of what might have passed for arms flailed at your torso. The pain had nearly blinded you, and you felt your ribs cracking under the pressure of its blows. The only advantage you had was that of surprise; the thing hadn’t been expecting you to open the door, and seemed slightly disoriented. It wasn’t a lot but it had been enough to reach to the side and grab your gun where it had fallen. You had pulled the trigger until there were no bullets left.  
  
Battered and bloody, you had crawled out of the apartment. The streets had been full, then, full of the things, full of the screaming people that they were attacking. You had been assailed over and over, and by some stroke of luck managed to make it to the lab. In pain and gasping, but more or less whole. Or so you’d thought, at the time.   
  
Your eyes drift towards the sky again. You don’t want to remember how you got here, staring at a slow sunset through from the floor of a Denali. The space formerly occupied by your field kit. Idly, you wonder if you have any viable DNA from the creature caught under your fingernails.  
  
Probably not. It had been rock hard. A giant insect. You wonder if Grissom’s fascinated by them, or if he just hasn’t realized what you're dealing with yet.  
  
His hand on your head is comforting. You move your hand, trying to grab his, but can’t. He sees the movement and holds your hand tightly. “Don’t move too much, Sara,” he murmurs, and wipes more blood away from your mouth.  
  
He can’t understand what you’re trying to tell him. If this had been a movie you would have signed it. As it is, all you can do is will the bloody bubbles you form on your lips into the words that you want him to hear.  
  
_I’m slipping, Grissom. I’m slipping out of myself. The colors I’m seeing are too bright, Grissom, and it’s getting harder and harder to hold on._  
  
You think of butterflies. They always meant so much to him, more than other people guessed. You know because he marked the beginning of their chapter in the book he’d given you one Christmas, laying a thin ribbon in between the pages, such an old-fashioned thing to do.   
  
You can feel your body breaking, something greater than yourself peeling the shell away from your soul. Breaking free from your earthly chrysalis doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would. You think about the tangerine peel, left in your footprints in the snow. Butterflies and tangerines. Maybe your wings, when they dry, will be bright orange.  
  
One last sigh passes your lips. You hope that Grissom understands everything you want him to know as you close your eyes.   
  
The last part of yourself that you feel is his hand gripping yours. It’s the last bit to drop behind you as you head out into the darkness.  
  


 

**Grissom**

  
  
For a while, you’re the only one who realizes she’s gone. Everyone except for Catherine, stretched out next to Sara, is facing forward, and her eyes are shut tight. There’s no one there but you to see the last gush of blood she coughs up in lieu of a goodbye. There’s no one there but you to feel the muscles in her hand relax around yours. And you can’t tell them, because when she left she seemed to have taken your voice with her.  
  
The SUV trundles forward, into what’s passing for a sunset these days. The destruction of millions of lives hangs thick in the atmosphere, staining everything, even the last havens that haven't yet been touched. You take stock of your losses and count your life among those already gone. If they have statistics in the new world you think will probably rise from the ashes, you’ll be remembered as one. Nothing else, once the people in this car die. You’ll be a regret, a casualty of a war that no one chose to fight.  
  
You’re fine with that. You know that there’s no place for you in whatever future they might be driving to.  
  
Your life is your work. There’s no way around that. And you know, as surely as you know your own name, that there will be no work of the type you do when you reach the coast. There will be no need for highly specialized forensic entomologists, or criminal investigators. In the space of three days, your life has been rendered obsolete. And the only other reason you might have had for living…  
  
Abruptly, you jerk your mind away from that path. You’ve always liked to think of yourself as pragmatic, and you know that whatever chances you might have had with Sara are dust now. It’s pointless to think about- so you won’t.  
  
But you still haven’t let go of her hand.  
  
Your mouth opens and closes, still not quite able to form words. You want to tell your hand to let go of her. Pushing the air out of your lungs, your lips mold syllables from it.  
  
“Pull over.” Not quite what you had in mind, but it will do.  
  
Greg looks at you in the rearview mirror, his foot still on the gas. Warrick and Nick have turned around to stare, and Catherine has opened her eyes. Lindsey is lost somewhere in the forward seats; you don’t really register that you can’t see her.  
  
“Stop the car,” you repeat, annoyed at the twinge of hysteria that you hear in your voice. Reluctantly, Greg pulls over. You look back down at Sara (not Sara, Sara’s body) and don’t look up again until the rear door swings up. Warrick, Nick, and Greg stare down at her too, their eyes filling with tears. Catherine gropes for Lindsey’s hand.  
  
“Is… is she…?” Greg’s afraid to say the words. You just look at him, your eyes boring into his until he looks away.  
  
“We don’t have time to bury her, Grissom.” Warrick’s voice, smooth and deep, makes you realize that if you were ever the pragmatic one in the group, it was a title you lost to him a long time ago. You wonder when that happened as you climb out and gently slide Sara across the floor after you.  
  
Wordlessly, Catherine hands you a blanket, procured from under the seat someplace. One of those cheap, just-in-case emergency ones that most police cars are stocked with. This one is a deep, soothing blue, the texture rough against your fingers. You exchange a long look and nod your thanks to her. Sparkles of tears hang from her eyelashes, but not entirely, you think, for Sara. Maybe a couple of those drops of water are for you, as well, and you’re not sure how to thank her for it- so you don’t. Instead you grab her hand, bringing it to your lips in a chaste kiss, treating her like the lady she is, like the lady you always knew she had been. She smiles at you, a wavery brave smile, and turns her head away.  
  
Warrick puts a hand on your shoulder and you stiffen. I’ll do it, the hand seems to say. You won’t have that.  _This last thing_ , you think,  _this last thing I can do. I’ll put my world to rest, because I belong to this one, not whatever one is coming._  The eloquent thought spins through your head but doesn’t make its way into sound. Instead you shake your head, covering Warrick’s hand with yours, squeezing it in reassurance before pushing it away. “Cath needs you,” you say.   
  
"We don't have long," he replies.  
  
"Don't wait," you tell him, and his eye flashes in something like alarm. He gives you another long look, punctuated by a final nod. Warrick’s always been your smartest investigator- you groomed him as your replacement for a reason. He’s sharp. He picks up on things fast. He picks up on you fast- like Catherine does- and he’s not stupid enough to argue. You wish you could take whatever strength was left to you and make it tangible so you could hand it to him. You hope that he finds it, somewhere, and think that he will.  
  
Nick and Greg stand close together, and not for the first time it strikes you that they could easily be brothers. The way Nick stands protectively behind Greg’s shoulder, awkwardly trying to comfort the younger man and hide his own tears at the same time. Catherine and Warrick will bounce back, you think. For Nick and Greg it won’t be quite that easy. You approach them, and they look up from Sara’s still form. You hug them, wrapping your arms around their shoulders like you give group hugs all the time, like you’re good at it. You’re not, but it will do for now. Greg sobs into your shoulder, leaving wet spots on your shirt. His clenched fist digs into your shoulder as he cries, and you rub his back in what you hope is a soothing way. Nick meets your eyes over Greg’s bowed head; there’s a ghost of a smile there, and you realize that he saw this coming a hundred miles back. He pats your shoulder and breaks away, going to stand next to Warrick.  
  
Greg continues to sob, but finally seems to get a grip on himself. “It will be all right, Greg,” you whisper to him, wishing you had a better lullaby. “This will all pass.” He shakes his head yes and steps away from you, sniffling into his wrist. You smile at him, not knowing if he realizes it. Inwardly, you sigh. Goodbyes have never been your strong point- neither is comforting Greg.  
  
Standing next to the tailgate, you open the blanket, letting Warrick lift Sara and place her in your arms. It feels as if she weighs nothing, and you marvel at her lightness as you turn away from them, heading out a little way into the desert. Your feet set you on a course that doesn’t really matter, and as you cross a low rise and skitter down a hill into a tiny rocky valley, you decide that this place is as good as any. You carefully place Sara down on the packed grit and gravel of the ground, spreading out the edge of the blanket so there’s enough room for you to sit beside her.  
  
She must have approved of the spot you picked, since your words unlock. The evening sky arches above you, a hazy blue streaked with white. It’s not late enough to see the stars appear in the east, and anyway, they probably won't be visible. That makes you angry and you tell Sara so, in a torrent of word that pours from you unchecked, for once. You tell her everything you’ve ever wanted to tell her, everything you’ve ever kept hidden. Inadvertently, you find that spilling your secrets to a dead woman is an amazing release, and you think you should have done it more often when you had the chance. But then, this isn’t just any dead woman. This is Sara.  
  
The minutes pass by not in ticks and tocks but in little ripples of desert wind. You empty yourself of everything, leaving yourself lying scattered on the sandy desert floor. The rocks, the scrubby bushes, and Sara all listen raptly. In the end, they have nothing to say.  
  
“So you see, Sara, why I can’t do this,” you continue. “There’s no place for me there. I’ll die, one way or the other, and I’d like to die in the world I knew while I still have the chance. Even if it’s collapsed… I can pick apart the ruins. I can still recognize what’s left.” You pause, look at her fondly, envying the expression of peace draped across her features. “I can’t face whatever’s coming, Sara. I don’t want to know how the future’s going to turn out.”  
  
You look away from her then, glancing in the direction from which you came. You’re startled to see Lindsey sitting there, watching you intently, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her chin rests on her knees as she stares at you with those old, old eyes she seems to have suddenly acquired.  
  
“Lindsey…” you falter, and the words you’ve been manipulating so beautifully for the past half an hour have disappeared again.  
  
“Don’t worry,” she says with her old-young voice, and you wonder if she was the one who stole your words. “Don’t worry. I’ll remember for you.” There’s acceptance there, the blessing of a child who wasn’t. If that’s what you get, you think, you’ll take it. But you can’t take your eyes off hers.  
  
“You shouldn’t see this, Lindsey,” you press on. “I’m… it’s not going to be pretty.”  
  
A dismissive shrug. “Balalu-aye spins on his crutches, says leave if you want, if you want to leave,” she said. You frown, not understanding her.  
  
“It’s a song my mom plays sometimes.” The unquestioning simplicity of that statement reminded you that she was, in fact, only twelve years old. “Lindsey…” you add a note of parental warning to her name, and she shrugs again, stands up, brushing the dirt off of her jeans. She ignores the bloodstains.  
  
“You better hurry up. She’s waiting for you.” Before waiting for your response, she’s gone, headed back towards the car. You look around you again, up at the sky, down at the ground. Wincing at the creaking of your joints, you lay down next to Sara, on your side, looking at her profile against the backdrop of sand and sky. You drape your arm across her waist, holding her like you think you’ve always wanted to.  
  
You murmur a quick prayer to the god you thought you’d lost faith in and placed the barrel of the gun to your temple. “Wait for me, Sara,” you whisper into her ear.  
  


**Catherine**

  
The gunshot's crack is sharp and it echoes off the rocky landscape, splintering into shards of sound and horror, four heads turning toward the source in alarm. Lindsey ignores the sudden shouting and running, the scrambling down into the dirt covered dip in the desert. Catherine watches her daughter as she climbs into the Denali, snuggling up beside her. Lindsey’s blonde head is a blur through her tears, but she can hear her, humming under her breath. She listens closer, barely making out the words.  
  
“Balalu-aye spins on his crutches, says leave if you want, if you want to leave…”  
  


 

 **Lindsey**  
  
  
  
Lindsey sits on the dock, leaning forward, searching for her reflection in the dark water. In the darkness, she can barely make out the lighter patches of wave where her pale blonde hair is reflected. The water doesn’t hold still long enough to reflect the stars that dust the heavens over her head.   
  
She smiles gently, digging her fingernails into the wooden boards that support her weight. She hums the refrain of a song she can barely remember, softly, deep in her throat, so no one else can hear. Her bare feet splash in the water, spotting the edges of her ragged shorts.   
  
Late evening sounds carry out to her; laughter, shouting, talking. The sweet aroma of frying fish on the balmy night breeze tickles her nose. Humming a little bit louder, she rocks back and forth slightly. She likes to come out here late at night, enjoys her solitary communes with the night sky. It’s a good way, she thinks, to remember.  
  
She’d said that she would remember, and she has.   
  
“Chou No Michiyuki,” Grissom said to Sara on that long-ago afternoon. “It’s a Japanese dance. It means “Journey of the Butterflies.” Young lovers, forbidden to marry, commit suicide. The next spring, they’re reborn as butterflies. Touching, don’t you think? Tragic, but with that silver lining on the horizon. I saw it performed in Los Angeles once.” He’d paused, his fingers gliding over hers, and hadn’t said anything for a while.   
  
Lindsey smiles to herself, thinking of that. The memory of a gunshot echoes in her mind, and she pictures the blood that must have sprayed over Sara’s white cheek. She remembered how Warrick and Nick and Greg had rushed to the place she’d been standing, torn apart by something lost that they could have saved. In the end they’d left them there, two more bodies left behind in the exodus to the coast.   
  
No one had spoken after that, except for Nick asking her in a gravelly voice to please stop singing. She had never sung that song again. Grissom had taken the advice in the lyrics and then stolen the song- she knew that as soon as she stopped singing it, she would lose it forever. Half wishing she could remember those words, she pictures Grissom and Sara reborn as butterflies. If she concentrates hard enough, she can feel the wind under her own fingertips, and hopes that one day she’s lucky enough to get a butterfly death.   
  
She won’t. She knows it. Even death has changed now. When someone dies, they are wrapped in a blanket and rowed out to one of the deep places to be slipped into the waves. Maybe she’ll be reborn as a fish. At least she could tell the other fish that she knew the last butterflies.   
  
A splash somewhere to her right attracts her attention, and she turns her head in the direction of the sound. Giggling, a teenager pulls her boyfriend up out of the water. Their forms are silhouetted for a moment against the bright yellow door of someone’s living space, and the smile slowly ebbs away from Lindsey’s face.  
  
She can’t remember the feel of solid ground beneath her feet. They’ve been living on this floating city for twelve years. Twelve long years of an entire species forsaking land and learning to live on the sea.   
  
The Things had taken over the major continents, avoiding water where they could. Even after all this time, no one knew where they had come from, although there were rumors of a government experiment gone wrong. Doors were opened that should have stayed shut, people whispered. Reasons aside, it had been impossible to fight them. Three fourths- at the least- of the human population had been wiped out in the first year. The lucky ones tied their boats together into the drifting metropolises of the oceans, the new Venices. The Pacific Islands became the last refuges for mankind, the last untouched land in what had been their world. Very few people actually lived on the islands themselves; what little land there was was devoted to farming. But you could get close to them without danger, and sometimes it was enough.  
  
There were missions to the mainlands, in search of relics of the lives that they’d lost, or survivors, or supplies. They didn’t always come back. Sometimes, Lindsey was tempted to take ship with the brave ones, for better or for worse, just to feel the dirt between her toes again. To lay her hands on the bark of a tree, and be shaded from the sun by the branches arching over her.  
  
Her mother would be heartbroken if she went back, though. Catherine still lived by her rule of never regretting, never looking back. She could barely walk, but she accepted her life and dealt with it as best she could. Of course, Warrick helped. He’d often joked that they would have made a perfect pirate couple; he with his one eye, she with her mangled leg. The desperation that had tinged the first few years on the water had faded from their voices, leaving calm acceptance in its wake. She wasn’t sure what they would have done without each other. She wasn’t sure she wanted to think about it.  
  
They all lived together on half of a salvaged barge; Catherine and Warrick and herself, Nick and Greg, the Robbins family and David. David had married Doc Robbin’s eldest daughter not long after they’d sailed out to sea. The doctor was getting older now, but still sailed from city to city, tending to people’s injuries as best he could.   
  
In the beginning, Nick had somehow gotten his hands on a small sailboat. For years, he sailed all over, up and down the coast, from village to town to the largest cities. He scoured the islands and came perilously close to the coasts of the Americas, searching for his family. He had even braved the dangerous Drake Passage, navigating the waters between the tip of South America and Antarctica quickly and successfully, but his search of the Atlantic had also proved fruitless. He hadn’t come back the man he’d left, but he did his best to hide it.   
  
Flicking a bit of seaweed with her toe, she sighs. You can't help but notice Nick, his face tanned and lined by long hours in the sun and salt wind, scanning the horizon every time he thinks no one is looking. She wants to tell him that they’d find each other again, someday, but she doesn't know the words to that song.  
  
“Hey, beautiful.” Startled, Lindsey looks up into Greg’s smiling eyes. She gives him a small smile in return before looking back out to sea. She feels him settle himself down beside her and leans into his arm as he wraps it around her thin shoulders.   
  
“Whatcha thinking?”   
  
She shrugs, delicately, breathes in the warm salt-scented air.   
  
“ _Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us... the pier lights our carnival life forever,_ ” she sings softly. “ _Oh, love me tonight, and I promise I'll love you forever…_ ” she lets the note drift away, running her hand along the sunbleached wood as Greg leans toward her and leaves a trail of soft kisses on her shoulder.  
  
“I love you too, babe.” Greg stopped wondering a long time ago where Lindsey learned all of her songs. She knows bits and snippets of so many that it’s entirely possible to carry on a conversation with her. He wonders instead if their daughter will speak normally or only with songs, as her mother does. He can’t remember the last time he heard Lindsey construct a sentence of her own, although he tries. He remembers an angry little girl running out of a morgue, his younger self unaware at the time that the furious streak that had crossed his path would become the woman he loved more than anything. He thinks about what might have happened if nothing had changed. They wouldn't have had their beautiful child, or another one on the way.  
  
Pulling Lindsey closer to him, he decides that he doesn’t care. They watch the stars revolve through the sky together, each lost in their thoughts of the past. One of Lindsey’s hands snakes into his, the other cradling the bump of her stomach as they turn their faces towards the dawn. Towards the future.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a one-shot, random drabble thing, and grew into something slightly bigger. While I am a GS shipper, and this has slightly GS overtones, it wasn't particularly meant to be that way. Swear. 
> 
> "Balalu-aye spins on his crutches, says leave if you want, if you want to leave," is an excerpt from the Paul Simon song "Rhythm of the Saints."
> 
> "Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us/ the pier lights our carnival life forever/ Oh, love me tonight, and I promise I'll love you forever" is an excerpt from the Bruce Springsteen song "4th of July, Asbury Park."


End file.
